


harry, murder, and perfect shagging

by vanger



Series: harry, murder, and perfect shagging [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bottom Draco Malfoy, Drarry, M/M, Male Slash, Malfoy Manor, Murder, Not Epilogue Compliant, POV Draco Malfoy, Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Romance, Top Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22462492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanger/pseuds/vanger
Summary: Draco's post-war life consists of drinking away every night and shagging anyone he can to try and forget the past. When former Death Eaters start turning up murdered, Auror Harry Potter sticks his nose where Draco doesn't want it. Or maybe he does want it?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: harry, murder, and perfect shagging [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1616218
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	harry, murder, and perfect shagging

It was the heat that woke Draco. Why the fuck was he overheating so much in his own bed? Turning over, his headache hit him, a belated alarm clock, throbbing in a reminder of how much he’d drank the night before, followed by the jolt of pain as his elbow banged into something boney. 

“Shit.” Draco mumbled. “Blaise. Get out. Too hot.”

With a loud sigh, a very naked Blaise Zabini turned to face Draco. “What, no breakfast in bed for your lover?” He grumbled, already heaving himself out of bed, picking up his clothes off of the ground and pulling them on.

“We’re not lovers. I don’t even know why you’re here. Why are you _always_ goddamn here?” Draco moaned, pulling a pillow over his face and turning back against the wall, suddenly realising that he too is completely nude.

Blaise laughed derisively, buttoning up last night’s dress robes. “Because you’re _always_ hammered at social engagements and you’re as slutty as they come. I’m just the only one who’ll put up with you.”

Blaise doesn’t wait for Draco to come up with a snarky reply, and leaves without a word, his footsteps echoing loudly through the cavernous halls of Malfoy Manor. 

_What an absolute arsehole_ , thinks Draco, staring up at the white ceiling of his bedroom. This was the only room that Draco inhabited in the manor, and despite Zabini’s seemingly never-ending presence in it after the numerous weekly benders that Draco committed to, the room felt very lonely. The room was sparsely decorated, and all that existed in it other than Draco’s bed was his desk, and his two pot plants, the thriving lavender and the somewhat wilting basil.

Staring at the sad looking basil, Draco felt his eyes begin to well, and before long he begins sobbing, naked in his bed, hungover and freshly fucked by a friend who couldn’t care less.

_Is this what I’m really reduced to?_ Draco asked himself. The war had changed everything. His father, Lucius was in Azkaban, and his mother was a mere shell of herself. Here was Draco, one of many pureblood socialites, drinking himself into oblivion every night and sleeping with whoever would give him so much as a smile. He laughed bitterly to himself, tears running down his face. _How fucking pathetic, Malfoy_.

Fumbling for his wand on his bedside table, Draco waved his hand in a sweeping motion, his curtains flinging themselves open as he sat himself up in bed, finding hot coffee and the day’s _Daily Prophet_ waiting for him, next to here his wand had been. Thank Merlin for house elves.

Sipping his coffee, and grimacing as it burnt his lips, Draco rolled his eyes as he opened the newspaper and once again found _bloody Potter_ on the front page once again. ‘ _The Boy Who Lived Solves Another Case!”_ Read the headline, another story about Potter and his successful career as an Auror. 

_“_ Auror Potter,” Draco grumbled. “More like Potter the prick.” Wiping his eyes, the lump in his throat turns to envy. “Can he do no fucking wrong?”

Draco flicked through the paper a little more, observing nothing of interest. Rita Skeeter had continued as the _Prophet’s_ star writer even after the war, so the majority of the stories were drivel, and the rest were over-embellished to the point of fiction. Throwing the paper aside, Draco decided he’d better get dressed and began to pull on some underwear, the room still stifling. 

_God_ his arse was sore.

Finally dressed, pants and all, Draco trudged down to the dining room, where his mother would surely be brooding over a pot of tea. He hoped she wouldn’t still be in her dressing gown. Narcissa had taken to wearing her dressing gown all day lately, as her depression gradually swallowed her whole. 

Narcissa had left the house for nothing since Lucius had been imprisoned, abandoning her charity projects and social gatherings, effectively haunting the halls of Malfoy Manor with the rest of their ancestors. She had become the complete opposite of what she had always been, an articulate, polite, immaculately groomed pillar of pureblood society. Talking to Narcissa Malfoy was similar to what Draco imagined talking to a victim of the Dementor’s Kiss would be like.

Strangely, Draco’s mother was not in the dining room, and her usual pot of tea was sitting, steaming, next to her untouched cup and saucer. Draco frowned. Perhaps she was still in bed. 

“Seely?” called Draco, the house elf appearing with a _crack_.

“Yes, Master Draco?” The house elf asked with it’s usual whimper.

“Where is my mother this morning? Has she not been down?”

“N-no Master Draco, Mistress has not been to breakfast this morning” Seely frowned, finding this unusual too. Despite her heavy depression, Narcissa Malfoy had never risen later than eight o’clock in her life. The clock above the mantle place read half past nine.

“Go wake her. This is getting ridiculous.” Draco understood that everyone needed their own way to process things, and Merlin knew he’d strayed from the path of decorum recently, but he was worried about his mother. 

The house elf disappeared with another crack, but reappeared just as quickly, before Draco had even reached the table to sit down and brood over his coffee. “So, is she awake?”

“Mistress is not in her ch-chambers.” Seely whimpered, barely intelligible. “I’s not knows where Mistress is.” The house elf cowered.

Draco frowned. He couldn’t imagine where else his mother could be. “Maybe she’s in the gardens. Surely she couldn’t be anywhere else.” Draco tried to convince himself. His head still throbbed. This morning was far too much for him. “I’ll go look for Mother. Go back to the kitchens” Draco told the house elf firmly.

Draco followed the passageway from the dining room to his mother’s rose garden at the front of the manor. Many moons ago, Narcissa would regularly tend to her precious roses immediately after her morning pot of tea. The roses had once been his mother’s pride and joy, but with time and neglect they had become overgrown and untamed. The garden lay directly in view from the window of Draco’s mother’s bedchamber. Draco reached the end of the passage, and swung open the door on the other side. He wandered through the maze of roses; pink, yellow, blood red, and white, the rose garden was a forest of colours. 

He could see nobody in the vast overgrowth. He could not see his mother, short, but straight backed and imposing, amongst her flowers. Walking through the tangle of thorns and petals, he looked up at the window of her bed chamber. _Where is she? This is impossible!_ Draco thought, about to give up, when he glimpsed something dark on top of a cluster of yellow rose bushes not fifty yards away.It had almost looked like the colour of his mother’s hair. Draco frowned and approached the shrub. It took Draco nearly a minute to register what was in front of him. 

Narcissa Malfoy was dead. Her eyes open, her stare glassy, her corpse splayed uncomfortably on top of her prized roses, limp and bloody as she lay face up, looking into the eyes of her son, left behind in this ever increasingly lonely world. 


End file.
